Gravity's End
by Barbara Barnett
Summary: The days and weeks in Dr. Nicholas Rush's life after his wife Gloria passes away of Cancer.
1. Being and Nothingness

Gravity's End

Chapter 1

Stargate Universe

Takes Place in the days and months after Gloria Rush's death

Characters do not belong to me. Comments and Reviews greatly appreciated.

Dr. Nicholas Rush was numb. It had be horrible few days; more horrible than they otherwise might have been—which was pretty damned horrible. SGC had made the arrangements, shipping her casket to London in the cargo bay of a USAF jet as he sat in the passenger bay behind the pilot and co-pilot. He was numb.

In a limbo state between being utterly dissociated from even himself—and the emotional wreck trying to stem the sobs that threatened every few moments to emerge involuntarily from deep within his chest—he sat silent, eyes closed. Not sleeping; not awake—numb.

He'd gotten the call while flying to home to San Francisco from D.C., two and a half hours into the flight. He'd been listening to Bach Partita for Violin #3, the music an aural cocoon of pure mathematics-the exquisite violin engulfing him in her presence. He'd almost not heard the air phone ring, but it's tone had jarred him from the silk and catgut of the Partita, an incongruous sound.

He'd not wanted to leave-not the city, anyway. The recliner at Gloria's bedside had become his satellite office: small, but efficient. He'd made trips home to work furiously at his white board-and then to his university office to meet with his grad students, all capable physicists and mathematicians, but not a linguist amongst them. So, capable was not necessarily the same as adequate.

But Dr. Daniel Jackson had informed him that his presence was demanded in Washington: an urgent meeting. Twenty-four hours at the most, he'd promised. And Gloria's doctors had assured him she'd have at least another week or so. Or so-the operative variable.

He'd learned long ago never to trust approximations. But he'd gone anyway, wanting to believe she'd have—they'd have-more time. And Gloria, supportive as ever, insisted; insisted he go, while trying desperately to hide her disappointment in him that he was even considering it; in the fact that he really wanted, no preferred, to be at that meeting. She knew it and so did he. It was a lie necessary to keep him sane, not now, but soon. So very soon.

Gloria knew, at least that what he'd told himself, airborne and flying across the country, that the work would keep him alive. After. After the unthinkable. As she would be buried in the ground back home amidst the rose gardens of an ancient English cemetery, he could likewise be buried—in the work. It would be all there was-all that was left.

She feared for him. "I'm afraid, Nicholas. I'm afraid that you'll disintegrate into nothingness." Her voice warm and soft in his ear. He'd held her hand in both of his. "I'm stronger than that, my darling," he'd whispered, trying to smile, a meager attempt. But they both knew that was a lie.

The approximations had been oh, so wrong. And Gloria died; and he'd not been there for her after all. "I'm sorry Dr. Rush, she'd taken a turn for the worse...Her advance directive...there was a DNR...I'm sorry." The words evaporated in his ears like droplets of dew on a hot summer's morning. "What shall we...?" Rush clicked "end," swallowing hard.

He dialed Jackson's mobile by touch, the numbers swimming in and out of his field of vision. "Gloria's gone," he'd choked out barely audible, barely holding it together, words stuck in his throat. Rush had always soft-spoken, but now the unthinkable words were unwilling to be heard above a hoarse whisper. "I need a few days. I have to get her back to England somehow...I'm not sure..." He sounded lost, to Daniel's ears, anyway, his voice far away, unsteady-at best.

"Do you have anyone you can call?" He'd thought of Gloria's friend, who would likely be hovering now at the hospital, taking charge, taking command. "No."

"What hospital?"

"UC Berkeley Medical Center. I'm going there straightaway as soon as I land. I... I need to make arr..."

"Nicholas, listen to me. SGC will get you both over to England. No problem. Take all the time you need. Be with her." Too late for that, Rush heard in his ear, a distant cackle; it made him gasp. "Nicholas, are you there?"

"Yes, Yes, I'm here. Thank you, Daniel." And so they flew her home in a sleek military jet. Small recompense it was, though for her family, who'd barely spoken to him during the funeral at a small country church, and after, back at her parents nearby home near the burial ground. Dozens of cousins, aunts and uncles gathered around Gloria's parents, ignoring Nicholas. He was happy for that, at least. Better to be ignored than blamed, examined, interrogated about her last moments, when he'd had no personal knowledge of them. Nick had no family to surround him, swaddle him in too much love, make sure he'd eaten, slept. That had been Gloria's job-one of them, anyway. Only Gloria. The beautiful, lyrical, splendid Gloria, whose family never quite accepted this upstart working class Scot. And never missed an opportunity to shove it in his face—he didn't really belong.

Even the minister felt it. Not even now, at Gloria's funeral. Especially not now—now that they knew he'd not even been there at the end, denying her not only her family, but the man she'd followed across the Atlantic and across an entire continent. He'd heard the whispered accusations, the stares.

And now it was over, and Nicholas was back in DC; he'd seen no point in going home to their San Francisco townhouse, abandoned by her-like he had been, dead. Like her. Like him, metaphorically at least, he'd thought grimly.

Jackson greeted him at Reagan International when his plane landed. No military jet to transport him home. No need. Virgin Air Business Class-the food and wine; the comfortable accommodations a waste as Nicholas simply sat, staring into the nothingness of his life-nearly catatonic. He'd lost count of the "are you okay sirs" from concerned flight attendants who'd noticed something wrong with him. Someone-he wasn't sure who-had placed a blanket over him in the darkened cabin as he shivered in the cooled air of the jet. He floated wraithlike through immigration and customs, a ghost. "Dr. Rush!" Jackson noticed him at customs tucking away his maroon U.K.

"Dr. Jackson, you didn't have to..."

"Least I could do..." The unspoken complicity in Rush's guilt plain on his face. Asking him if he was "okay" would be hollow. Of course he wasn't "okay." How could he be? He'd been there. He knew.

"So. Do you want to take a few days? Sort out your wife's affairs? Get over the jet lag?" Nick wasn't responding to any of it, staring out the windshield into nothingness as Daniel drove him back to the Shoream, Rush's D.C. hotel of choice. Rush shook his head ever so slightly, not responding, combing his hair out of his face; Daniel noticed the slight tremble in his hand, the shakiness he'd not noticed before in the silence.

"Are you alright?" They'd arrived at the Shoream.

"I'll be in tomorrow morning." His voice was raspy. "Thanks for the lift." Rush disappeared through the revolving door—a wraith, drifting silently through the posh lobby.

Back in his room, finally, Nicholas removed his jacket and tie, waistcoat and shoes, hurling each piece across the room, fury deflected from himself to the nearest objects in the room. But then he remembered.

Retrieving his corduroy blazer from the bed, where it had landed, he searched the pockets, inside and out, finally locating what he'd sought—a photograph. The photograph. Picking it up gingerly, he stared down at it as he crossed back to the far side of the room, slower and slower as if time-space were destined to collapse around him. The weight of his grief descended upon his narrow frame with g-forces that caused him to stagger and then simply crumple where he stood, finding the wall for support and then sliding down it into a heap as if to dissolve into nothingness, photo still clasped in his left hand.

Finally, he wept. For her and for himself—for the emptiness—the void that sucked the air from the room; that threatened to suffocate him. He had not wept in all the week since her death, refusing to allow them to escape, to let anyone know, to feel. For the feelings: grief, guilt, immense loneliness were too intense, their power overwhelming him, dragging him into a vortex of unending sorrow.

He couldn't afford this; he needed to work. He _had_ to work; the work was all there was—now. But he could no more stop it, bottle his emotions and shelve them in a corner of his neatly compartmentalized brain than he could a wild animal intent on devouring his prey whole. Nicholas Rush wept until there were no more tears to weep; until the photograph taken not so long ago nearly disintegrated in his hands into molecules of cellulose and silver nitrate.


	2. Chapter 2

Rush wasn't sure he'd slept. The room was lighter than it had been when last he'd noticed. Light filtered past the semi-sheer curtains, casting the room in a slightly bronzed glow. Sunbeams glinted with tiny dust motes imperceivable except when illuminated with the solar rays now invading his space, his solitude, his misery.

He rubbed at his eyes; his face still wet. The photograph of Gloria now lay uselessly beside him on the floor. Lifting it a final time to his face, he held it there before carefully folding it, placing it in his shirt pocket.

Glancing at the nightstand clock, he noted the hour: 5:42 a.m. Perhaps he had slept, after all. Rising from the floor, he sought out the small pouch and rolling papers, trying to recall where he'd placed them, before remembering that they were probably in his jacket he'd hurled across the room. Had he specified a smoking room, he wondered vaguely? He couldn't recall; he couldn't recall much about the past 24 hours—perhaps not the past five days. It was all a blur.

The bathroom mirror told him looked like death—unsurprising, really, he considered. Considering…

His hair was matted; his eyes red from tears and tiredness; he needed a shave. He really needed a shower—hot and steamy.

"Don't come near me till you've showered," she would tell him, laughing, when he'd put in four nights in a row at the lab—little food, much coffee, too few cigarettes—too often.

But then she'd surprise him, sneaking into the master bath while he allowed the hot massaging beat of the shower cascade over his body in torrents, washing away the sounds and smells of the lab, reviving him. She would know how absorbed he would be as the hot needles of water beat into his tight shoulder and neck muscles, relaxing him. But then suddenly, she would be there, in the shower with him.

"Nick, you've gotten too thin, I think lasagna is in order, my darling." And of course it would already be in the oven as she soaped his back as long as he could stand it—until he could stand it no longer and turn into her arms. His gentle kisses made her crazy with desire, but he wouldn't relent. Her jaw, her eyes—her mouth, teasing impossibly gentle caresses of the lips. Until she could stand it no longer. The image disappeared from his mind's eye as it was only his dead, exhausted eyes that stared back at him from the bathroom mirror. Shedding his clothes, he washed at the basin, giving the shower stall a backwards glance, decided against it. A wash would have to do.

He heard the soft tone of his mobile ringing in the other room. That too, had been thrown somewhere. Sighing, Rush toweled himself off and grabbed the white terry bathrobe conveniently provided for Shoream guests and went in search of a one very small mobile phone.

He'd heard the tinkling of crystal chimes emanating from beneath the bed. Aha, he thought, a beacon. Or at least a phone message.

Jackson. With an offer.

"We'd like to discuss an offer—when you're ready to hear it. Take your time, but before you head back to the West Coast, we'd like to set up a meeting to talk about it. Doesn't have to be today—or even tomorrow."

Rush arched an eyebrow at the message. It didn't take a genius to figure out what the offer would be. Nothing to hold him to California any longer, he'd be an asset at SGC full time. That would be the offer, he was certain.

He'd already decided against returning to San Francisco, at least for the time being. Yes, he'd eventually need to go back to the house—their house. Her house, something he did not relish. Not now. He sucked in a shaky breath, the image of Gloria playing in the music room—he could hear her violin, picture her fingers dancing on the ebony fingerboard, the magic of the notes escaping into the ambient air. He steadied himself by sitting on the edge of the bed, taking a deep breath. He desperately needed a smoke—and an espresso.

"Daniel. It's Nicholas."

"You sound better than I thought you would."

"I'm fine. Good night's sleep…" He practically laughed, realizing in the last moment that it might be too much—too much a dead giveaway that he was anything but fine. "I can stop by this morning, if you'd like. I've no other..."

"Great. Say, 11?"

"I'll be there." Rush sighed, shedding the robe, and rummaged through the small duffle he'd brought for something—anything—to wear. He came across his shaving kit, and absently considered whether he should shave off the scruff that had accumulated over the past several days. He wasn't really in the mood, but, on the other hand, he didn't want his appearance to call attention to his true state of mind—and the outpouring of unwelcome pity that would surely follow. He shaved; not well, but well enough—he hoped. He threw on jeans and grabbed his corduroy jacket and briefcase on the way out, trying to recall the directions, metro changes.

The Shoream lobby was vast; it's classic elegance spoke of another era, of back room deals and old Washington. He'd first stayed there shortly after he had accepted the post in Berkeley's Astrophysical Fluid Dynamics Group. Rush was giving a lecture at the Smithsonian on his simulation models of the astrophysical fluid dynamics of star formation. It was the first of many times, he had stayed there—sometimes with Gloria, too oftentimes alone—a waste of lavishly romantic space, he'd told her.

Rush made his way towards the entrance barely cognizant of his surroundings, his thoughts deep within himself as he remembered her there—in that lobby—hair up, evening attire, dressed for Lincoln Center, twirling with delight like a schoolgirl. "Lincoln Centre, Nick, I can't believe I'm to play there…in…" a cue.

"One hour and 45 minutes, and if we don't catch a taxi now, you shall miss your grand debut. So we'd best be off, my darling." He'd smiled at her, amused, touched, aroused. He'd wanted to ravish her there. Rush's hand went instinctively to his breast pocket, assuring himself that the photograph was there. He shook off the gesture as stupidly sentimental; she was dead. Gone. At least her body was dead. But what of her consciousness, he wondered, a vague thought slipping through the synapses of his brain? Was it dead as well? Or had it slipped somewhere into the ether of his orbit, pure energy? It was a ridiculous notion, he knew. But it was something his mind—or was it his heart?—refused to shake off.

"Dr. Rush?" Rush was startled by his name, looking up to find a vaguely familiar young soldier at his side. "Corporal Dempsy, sir. SGC. Dr. Jackson sent me…"

Rush nodded slightly as the young man gestured beyond the revolving door towards the waiting automobile.


	3. Chapter 3

Rush was shuttled into a conference room in another wing of SGC's Pentagon offices after going through security. He was alone. The conference room was larger—and more nicely appointed than the usual meeting room that occasionally doubled as his work space when he was in DC.

"Dr. Rush." A kind voice, soft. It startled Rush as so many things seemed to these past few days. He shook it off as sleep deprivation. "I'm so sorry to hear about your wife." There it was—the pity. He was barely holding together as it was; his emotions were on a thin enough tether that threatened to snap at any moment—something that would not happen by sheer force of will. "Thank you Mrs. Croft. I appreciate that."

"I brought you a coffee. I just brewed a pot. Sumatra. Milk. No sugar." Rush smiled wanly. Pity did have its benefits, on the other hand. She set it down gently in front of him, taking his hand in both of hers. Felicia Croft was a grandmother 12 times over, and knew the part well. "You will let me know if there's anything you need?"

"Yes. I will." Terse reply. Rush looked into his coffee, clearing his throat hoarsely as she left.

"Felicia harassing you, Nicholas?" Daniel strode into the room accompanied by General O'Neill and two others he'd never met.

"Nah," he replied, drawing out the sound. "Her coffee is better than Starbucks. If that's harassment…" There was almost too much cheer in his voice; he knew it didn't ring true, and that Daniel would notice.

"Dr. Nicholas Rush, Camille Wray and Colonel David Telford. They are detailed to the new project we'd wanted to tell you about. General O'Neill you already know, so…"

Rush rose, taking O'Neill's hand first. "General…"

"Dr. Rush. I was sorry to hear about your wife. Sorrier still that we'd kept you from her bedside at the end. I don't know what to say. If there's anything we can do to help you through this time, consider it done. Our resources are at your disposal at SGC. I mean that."

"Thank you General; that won't' be necessary, I'm…"

"Still." He gestured for everyone to sit. Camille is IOA, detailed to SGC to head up human resources for the project, and David is the military liaison. "Daniel…"

"Dr. Rush, we know this is a difficult time for you right now, but please consider what I'm about to ask as an honor both for you and for us. Take your time before you respond; go back home, talk to your family, friends, deal with whatever you need to deal with at UC and personally. Let it sit for a week or a month…"

"Get on with it Daniel." Telford was the only one not seated; he paced the room with an intensity that bled through the atmosphere of the conference room, enshrouding them all.

"We'd like to offer you the post of lead scientist on Project Icarus. Funding came through this morning, in no small part thanks to your work back at Berkeley and your very persuasive arguments last week before the Technology and Space subcommittee in the Senate. Senator Armstrong's office called yesterday, and you were the first person on the list to call."

"Your knowledge of Ancient technology and language are crucial to unlocking the ninth and final chevron, and continuing our work in understanding what the Ancients were trying to do," O'Neill drawled.

Wray continued. "You would need to be based here at SGC for now, until such time as a base can be built on the Niquadria-rich planet we've identified—again with your help. We believe that will be about six months to a year until it's completely operational. At that time, you would relocate to Icarus Base to complete the work. You would have funds and high-level civilian and military scientists to staff to work on the Ninth Chevron decryption algorithm, as well as other projects under your direction. There are several of those—some to do with the Stargate and others to do with other Ancient technology, including FTL drive and weapons systems. If you accept our offer, you will be briefed on those once you've signed on. We've already spoken to your department chair at the University of California, and although she was not completely willing to let you go, was quite happy to know that because we were requesting only that you be granted an extended leave. Any work you do for SGC will carry UC Berkeley's name on it along with yours and SGC's."

Rush was immediately uneasy with the idea that SGC had gone ahead, before he'd agreed, to secure UC's blessing, but he swallowed it. This was the Holy Grail, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Of course they knew he'd never turn it down.

"I'm flattered by your offer, but…"

"No need to give us your answer now, son. Take whatever time you need; let us know next week." O'Neill got up, signaling an end to the meeting. "David, can we go over those numbers you have for me? Dr. Rush, take care—and remember what I said. Daniel and Camille can take it from here." Telford and O'Neill left the room, heads together.

"Dr. Rush, a real pleasure meeting you. I've certainly heard enough about you at the IOA, and I hope you'll agree to join the Icarus Project as our lead scientist. Daniel assures me that you are tops in your field and we couldn't be in better hands." Camille extended her hand, her beautiful smile softening her sharply angled face. "I am sorry about your wife; I know you two were very close. It must be difficult to even be sitting here with all of us; your mind must, in some ways at least, be a million miles removed from this room. At any rate, I hope your answer will be a 'yes.'"

Daniel blew out a breath as Nicholas watched Wray exit the room. "We did it Nick. Armstrong came through. Unbelievable, isn't it?"

"Yes, it's all a bit…surreal." Rush fought the sense of elation his mind was telling him to feel, his natural reserve a easy hiding place for the chaos of emotions at play.

"You will say 'yes?'" It was a question. "You have to you know. Icarus is your baby—even as consultant—it's yours."

"Well, we'll see, then." It was too much all at once: the exhaustion, the grief, then this, and he felt catapulted to the teetering edge of a roller coaster, waiting for the next crash to come careering 'round the corner to thrust him into the abyss he knew was just below, unseen. But he felt it. "We'll see," he whispered, more to himself than to Jackson.

"Oh, Nick. There's someone who wants to meet you—a real fan."

"Really, I'm not…"

"I promised her. A huge fan."

"And who might this astrophysics groupie be, Daniel?" Rush sounded more annoyed than he intended.

"Her name is Dr. Amanda Perry. MIT PhD in Quantum Engineering. Her speciality is Ancient drive systems. Said you were the reason she went into studying Ancient technology."


	4. Chapter 4

"Dr. Nicholas Rush, Dr. Amanda Perry." Daniel held the door as Dr. Perry's high-tech chair was wheeled into the conference room. Rush's eyes went wide at the contraption: tubes, wires and a mass of buttons on a small attached interface.

His synapses reacted with a combination of confusion, pity—and the unreadable image of Gloria in her hospital bed in the days before she had screamed "enough," insisting that all bits of technology be removed that she might die "with a little dignity." "There is no dignity in dying," he'd wanted to shout back at her, "there is only death."

"Well, I'll leave you two alone. You'll be working together from time to time if Nicholas accepts our very generous offer, which, by the way, Nicholas, should be waiting for you in writing when you return to your hotel." Rush glared at Daniel, a plea in his expression: "Don't do this to me. Don't you dare leave me alone with her." If he'd noticed, which Nicholas assumed he had, Jackson ignored the it, closing the door gently behind him, leaving the two scientists alone.

"I…uh… Daniel tells me…"

"I've admired your work forever. It's a great honor to finally meet you, Dr. Rush." She spoke with great effort, through a tube embedded in her neck. But her genuine smile and shining blue eyes lit her face in away that forced anyone paying attention to ignore the chair, the contraption and anything else that screamed "not normal."

"I'm sorry for your loss; it must be…it must be so difficult…" Rush nodded. "…everyone hovering, asking if there's anything they can do for you—when you know they can't. It's… I know they're only trying to be kind, but…" Rush wondered if she was still talking about him, or was referring to herself.

"Spinal injury?" It was an educated guess.

"When I was 10. Horseback riding accident. I was trying to be a hotshot, and you could say I failed pretty spectacularly." Rush noted the bitterness behind the surpassingly lighthearted explanation.

"So you became a hotshot physicist instead. MIT, I understand. Impressive. Considering…" Rush gestured slightly towards her apparatus, grinning lopsidedly. "Even not considering," he added quickly. "MIT is a top school for Quantum Engineering."

"You're coming on board at SGC full time?"

"That is apparently the offer. Are you a consultant or on staff?"

"Staff. Is 80 hours a week considered full time?" He grinned again.

"I suppose it is. Though 'round here…" He trailed off, looking away.

"I should let you get back to…I know you must have so many things…" She was suddenly shy. He didn't want her to leave. Once she did, reality would impose itself again and he'd remember that Gloria was dead; that the best part of him was irretrievably gone.

"How…how did you come to know my work? It is a bit obscure…" he stammered. "Dr. Jackson mentioned that you'd read a paper of mine when you were 17?"

"It was, I think, your first paper on the Ancients. 'Quantum Aesthetics: A Philosophy of Ancient Technology.'"

"That _was_ obscure."

"_Nature_ is hardly obscure."

He was at Cambridge then, a hotshot in his own right, come through the ranks the hard way, and recruited by the Astrophysics department right from beneath noses of the Oxford dons with whom he'd studied for so many years. The paper had been outside his normal research sphere—a side project after becoming intrigued by the work going on across the pond. It had become an obsession—one he'd never quite lost.

"I was fascinated by the way you talked about the Ancients—not just their technology, but their civilization, the elegance of their language, their philosophy. It wasn't even so much the physics of it, although that certainly caught my eye; that was pretty distant above my head. I only knew I wanted to work on that—on understanding them. And I was always sort of a brainiac…and one with a lot of time on her hands. Too much." Her eyes cast downward, somber.

"Is there nothing…?"

Amanda sighed. "The doctors have pretty much tried it all. SGC has been great about keeping me on every experimental treatment protocol available in the U.S.—and even abroad. But…"

Rush sighed. "I…I'd love to read some of your papers. Only fair, you know." He tried changing the subject to something less obviously painful for her.

"I'll email a couple to you. I'd better let you go; I'm sure you have better things to do with your time than talk to the president of your fan club, Dr. Rush."

"I'm glad to have met you Dr. Perry…"

"Mandy…"

"Mandy, then." Rush gathered his belongings, glancing at his watch—12:55.

"Here, let me get that," he said, reaching around the chair to open the door for her. She turned the chair around once they were in the corridor.

"I hope we get to work together at some point, Dr. Rush." He nodded tightly, noticing Daniel round the corner.

"Dr. Perry, McKay was looking for you."

"Lovely." She rolled her eyes, and was off, commanding the chair to maneuver through the corridor towards the elevator.

"That poor young woman…" Rush began, staring off towards her.

"But she's brilliant. Really, really brilliant. One of the most talented engineering minds at SGC. Is there anything else you need, Nicholas? Will you be heading back to San Francisco soon to…" Rush stopped in his tracks, the exhaustion of the past week hitting him full force. Leaning against the nearest wall, he dropped his briefcase, watching the corridor sway before his eyes.

"I can't Daniel. I can't. Maybe in a few days—a week. I don't know. I…" Nicholas' voice wavered as he desperately tried fighting off the fatigue, the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm him. He sat gingerly on the floor, back hugging the wall, before he lost his balance completely.

"Nick? Someone get me some water. Now," Jackson shouted into the office center. "Call 911."

Rush's eyes were glazed over, open but not really focusing. Someone was handing him a styrofoam cup; he vaguely hoped it was coffee—strong coffee. But water would do.

He tried to concentrate. When was the last time he'd eaten? He was sure it had been sometime in the past 24 hours, but couldn't place just when that might have been. And then it went black.


	5. Chapter 5

"So tell me about her—your wife." Amanda had been sitting in silence as Rush made quick pencil notes in a small spiral bound notebook. She was fascinated by his hands moving with almost hummingbird-like swiftness as he scribbled equations likely only he could find legible. He'd been at it for 10 hours straight—reading, then scribbling, back to reading, stopping only to push his eyeglasses back to the bridge of his nose or to call for a refill of his dwindling French press coffee pot. And that was only today—a fourth day in row of the same routine.

Telford and Jackson had tried prying him away from the work, introduce him around to people he'd now be working with on a daily basis, take him to lunch, and later to dinner—anything to get him to take a break—all to no avail. They'd not known if he'd even left when finished for the day, they presumed not—from his disheveled appearance.

Rush finally looked up, Amanda's words rocked him, sending a chill through and around his spine and into his shoulder blades. "What?" The single word dripped challenge, laying down an impenetrable barricade; his glare unmistakable, a cold laser boring into her. She almost turned her chair around and fled from the Spartan office. Instead she approached closer moving further into the room from the doorway where she sat observing him work.

"Your wife. Tell me about her—about her life. She must have been extraordinary to wrest you from your work." Amanda smiled, gesturing with her eyes to the pile of books and papers strewn about his desk, covering every surface. Rush blew out a breath, the tension in his arms and shoulders giving way as he slumped back into the leather armchair, hands going to his eyes involuntarily trying to stem the grief threatening to pour forth uncontrollable. He tried to speak and found the words stuck in his chest. No longer cold, his eyes shifted as they locked into hers, now pleading with her to not make him speak. Not now.

Her gaze was too kind; if she only knew, he thought. He didn't deserve kindness; he didn't deserve the compassionate gaze of this beautiful, courageous young woman, who observed him so keenly, so intently. He had to look away. He tried going back to his notes, pick up his train of thought, but found his mind scattered into shattered shards, broken as he was. He closed his eyes, trying to find respite in his mind. He felt her next to his chair, the whirring of Amanda's high-tech wheelchair now silent. "It would help," she ventured, "I think… I mean… Maybe you'd…"

"No, it really wouldn't. Look. I'm sorry, but I'm really quite busy." Somehow he found the words, the strength, to be abrupt when all he wanted was to collapse into his own despair and never to emerge. He quickly turned his attention back to his notepad.

Daniel had sent her—a last ditch effort to wrest Rush from his office, get him to stop. He knew the corrosiveness of this path Rush had started. It was toxic and it only led downward in quickly accelerating spirals. Daniel had seen Rush almost relax in Amanda's company, it had, at least, seemed worth a shot.

"Dr. Rush." He looked up again, annoyed; she hadn't left after all. He sighed, irritation plain in his tight expression. "Look. I can't begin to know how you feel. I hate it when…"

"When what? When people give you that pitying look that presumes to have a clue about anything? I imagine you've gotten that look enough to make your skin crawl any time anyone opens their mouth. But you have no idea—at all—what… You think it's loss and grief, and that it is. But…" There was no point explaining, he thought trailing off. She wouldn't understand the corrosive eating away at his soul. She wouldn't begin to grasp what he would give to have back these last weeks—change them, instead of seeing Gloria die over and over again every time he drifted off to sleep, reaching for his hand and finding nothing but emptiness in her last hours.

Rush cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure. "Dr. Jackson told me that you've managed to decode some of the Ancient drive architecture. I'm wondering if any of that might assist me with the Ninth Chevron problem?"

Amanda smiled beatifically, a blush reddening her cheeks. "That it might Dr. Rush. But it's nearly time for dinner, and I'm starving." She said more boldly than she felt about inviting such a renown (and attractive) scientist to dinner. She held her breath.

Rush smiled slyly, perhaps for the first time in months. "You drive a hard bargain, Dr. Perry. Well, I can't guarantee you that I'll eat much of anything…"

"At least it will pries you away from here for a few hours. There's a great restaurant about a mile from here. Are you staying in the area?" Nicholas looked down. He wasn't presentable enough to go to the cafeteria, much less out of the complex. "No. I…I'm at the Shoream…in D.C." Not that he'd actually been back to his room in days.

Amanda recognized discomfort when she saw it. His clothes were more than rumpled; his light scruff of two days ago when she'd last seen him was closer to a full beard. He'd obviously showered; he smelt of the citrus bath gel found in the base shower facility dispensers.

"Do you mind if I might change my clothes?" he asked slightly embarrassed. "They're a bit… I have a…" he surveyed the corners of his office searching for his old leather duffel. "Ah. There." In better times, Nicholas dressed well, even expensively—bespoke, fine leather. He had three tuxedos hanging in his closet back in San Francisco: symphony galas, the opera, awards ceremonies; they were well used. He hoped he'd at least packed an entire set of clothes in the duffel, and not omitted anything crucial.

The locker room was empty. He washed his face in the sink, trying to eradicate the fatigue from his eyes, from his head. He looked up into the mirror. The dark smudges made his large dark brown eyes almost unnatural—deep black sockets, empty, like a skull's. "You're a wreck, my dear." Nicholas jumped, startled at the voice echoing just behind his left shoulder.

He glanced back, knowing he'd see no one there. But there she was when he turned back to the mirror, standing behind him. He shuddered, trying to blink Gloria's image from his consciousness. "You're going to kill yourself at this pace, you know. But perhaps that's the point?" A rhetorical question.

Nicholas whispered her name just as the door opened. "You alright, Dr. Rush?" He nodded absently at the air force officer.

"Yeah. Fine. Just washing up a bit." Nicholas heard the shower faucet turn behind him before he looked again into the mirror, heart pounding. She was gone. He glanced at his trembling hand, deciding after all, not to shave. He dressed quickly, and exiting the locker room. Amanda was waiting near the elevator.

"You're looking a little better."

"Little being the operative word, I'd guess." She shrugged. That, she thought, was a matter of opinion. He wasn't just attractive, she realized. There was something quite elusively beautiful about him. And dressed now in a long loose-fitting collarless shirt, black jeans and a leather waistcoat, especially with the beard and his long hair, he looked more unrepentant hippie than college professor. It was all she could do to not to sigh.

This was a man, she needed to remember, who was suffering terrible grief over his wife's death—and he wasn't doing well with it. He needed a friend, even if he wasn't aware of it—someone who could maybe get him to talk, to cry, to begin to deal with sorrow. Daniel had tried, but, as he'd told her, maybe she would be more successful in drawing him out before he self-destructed.


End file.
